Lorenzo was already close; Giovanni felt the insistent throb through the heavy, musky weight on his tongue and moaned, ignoring the warning tug on his hair to push deeper, and deeper down still, until his master growled and bucked, choking him, thighs pressed tight against the sweating arch of his shoulders and Giovanni’s name strung taut on Lorenzo’s lips.
Eyes closed, panting and undone, Lorenzo was perfection, a libertine sprawled over his throne with a pretty flush on high cheeks, his rich clothes all in dishabille. Giovanni fumbled with his breeches until he took himself in hand, and squeezed, three hard, rough strokes until he spent himself, his cheek pressed hard against his master’s inner thigh.
Lorenzo did not speak again until he had finished cleaning, then salving Giovanni’s wounds with a basin of clean water and cloth that he had called for and the jar of salve in his desk. Giovanni submitted to the process quietly, eyes closed, concentrating on steadying his breathing, subverting pain and pleasure both into a thorny sense of careful peace. He looked up only when bloodied gloves were folded on the desk, Lorenzo washing his hands fastidiously in the basin.
“There was an old woman in the courtyard the other day,” Lorenzo said at last, neutrally. “One of those fortune tellers. They are very popular with the maids.” Giovanni did not speak, hazily content, and Lorenzo continued, “I gave her a florin because Nannina told me to. The old woman looked at my palm, and told me that a wolf from Roma would pluck the eagle from my wrist, in the seat of my power.”
“Milord,” Giovanni said gently, but Lorenzo ignored the interruption.
“I know. Those fortune tellers, they will say what they can to get money from you. Nannina saw that I was upset, and bade her leave. And then you were late in returning, and sent no word, so I thought-” Lorenzo fell silent, abruptly, his fingers lingering over Giovanni’s shoulders.
The assassin sighed, soft and low. “Some day I will die, Lorenzo. It is unavoidable, and will come to us all.”
“I know,” Lorenzo had his lips pressed against his neck, breathing in, and out. “I know.”
“But until then…” Giovanni turned, taking up Lorenzo’s right hand, to brush a kiss over his ring. “Fear ill becomes you, Magnifico.”
Lorenzo glared at him, with a spark of his usual haughty pride, but he allowed Giovanni to lean up, press his palms over his master’s cheeks, and pull him down.
The Price of Failure [6/6]
Eyes closed, panting and undone, Lorenzo was perfection, a libertine sprawled over his throne with a pretty flush on high cheeks, his rich clothes all in dishabille. Giovanni fumbled with his breeches until he took himself in hand, and squeezed, three hard, rough strokes until he spent himself, his cheek pressed hard against his master’s inner thigh.
Lorenzo did not speak again until he had finished cleaning, then salving Giovanni’s wounds with a basin of clean water and cloth that he had called for and the jar of salve in his desk. Giovanni submitted to the process quietly, eyes closed, concentrating on steadying his breathing, subverting pain and pleasure both into a thorny sense of careful peace. He looked up only when bloodied gloves were folded on the desk, Lorenzo washing his hands fastidiously in the basin.
“There was an old woman in the courtyard the other day,” Lorenzo said at last, neutrally. “One of those fortune tellers. They are very popular with the maids.” Giovanni did not speak, hazily content, and Lorenzo continued, “I gave her a florin because Nannina told me to. The old woman looked at my palm, and told me that a wolf from Roma would pluck the eagle from my wrist, in the seat of my power.”
“Milord,” Giovanni said gently, but Lorenzo ignored the interruption.
“I know. Those fortune tellers, they will say what they can to get money from you. Nannina saw that I was upset, and bade her leave. And then you were late in returning, and sent no word, so I thought-” Lorenzo fell silent, abruptly, his fingers lingering over Giovanni’s shoulders.
The assassin sighed, soft and low. “Some day I will die, Lorenzo. It is unavoidable, and will come to us all.”
“I know,” Lorenzo had his lips pressed against his neck, breathing in, and out. “I know.”
“But until then…” Giovanni turned, taking up Lorenzo’s right hand, to brush a kiss over his ring. “Fear ill becomes you, Magnifico.”
Lorenzo glared at him, with a spark of his usual haughty pride, but he allowed Giovanni to lean up, press his palms over his master’s cheeks, and pull him down.
-fin…! sorry for the wait.-